


Reunion

by chasingriver



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bondage, Chains, Consensual Violence, Episode: s03e01 The Empty Hearse, Gloves, Implied/Referenced Torture, Kissing, M/M, Mycroft To The Rescue, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Rescue, Sibling Incest, Sibling Love, Spoilers, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-07 06:09:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1116422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chasingriver/pseuds/chasingriver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The guard punched Sherlock in the gut again, and he let out a groan.  </p>
<p>Mycroft—had his face shown any emotion at all—would have winced. This wasn’t how <i>he</i> did it. Not how <i>they</i> did it. But he couldn’t deny that the sight of his brother <i>suffering</i> like this—even at someone else’s crude, disgusting hands—still imbued him with lust.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reunion

**Author's Note:**

> A slightly AU version of the opening of _The Empty Hearse_.

The guard punched Sherlock in the gut again, and he let out a groan.

Mycroft—had his face shown any emotion at all—would have winced. This wasn’t how _he_ did it. Not how _they_ did it. But he couldn’t deny that the sight of his brother _suffering_ like this—even at someone else’s crude, disgusting hands—still imbued him with lust.

It wasn’t the reunion he’d expected. He’d presumed Sherlock would turn up at his London office, clean-cut and gloating. No, this was better. Errors in Sherlock’s judgement had required _legwork_ on his part: a valiant rescue, even. It put him ahead in their perpetual game. Half-naked and in chains… well. It was delicious to see him in familiar trappings, if nothing else.

The guard stormed off to confront his wife, leaving them alone at last. The bastard would be dealt with, of course: swiftly, lethally. Hurting Sherlock was unforgivable. Only _he_ was allowed to do that.

“So, my friend. Now it’s just you and me. You have no idea the trouble it took to find you.”

“You took your sweet time, Mycroft.”

Mycroft grabbed his hair and pulled his head back. Sherlock had been hanging limply from the chains the entire time he’d been in the room, and it was the first time he’d seen his brother’s face in five months. “It’s good to see you, love.” He kissed him—not roughly—just enough to taste his mouth and the sweat on his lips. He couldn’t suppress a frisson of lust at the familiarity of his brother’s body.

Sherlock eagerly returned the kiss before he spoke. “I can’t believe you just sat there and watched. You could have intervened a _little_ sooner,” he said, only mildly petulant.

“Wasn’t it more satisfying to deduce your way out of it? Surely you don’t want me to fight all your battles; you got awfully testy when I plucked you out of that mess in South Africa. Dispatching him with a shot to the head wouldn’t have given you much of a challenge. You do so _love_ a challenge.”

Mycroft let him relax against his torso. He retrieved a pristine white handkerchief from the pocket of his uniform, wet it with his tongue, and gently rubbed the sweat and blood from Sherlock’s face. Then he turned his attention to his battered form. His gloved fingers traced the wounds on his brother’s back, barely touching them. Black leather against pale skin. Welts, bruises. Delivered by his own hand, they’d both be burning with need. “He’s made a horrible mess of you,” Mycroft said, his words low, whispered, and somewhat strained. He pulled Sherlock’s head back again and kissed his throat, drinking in his taste, the feel of his skin, his presence.

He felt the shape of Sherlock’s face change as he smiled. “Jealous, Mycroft?”

“Of course.”

“It wasn’t so bad. I just imagined he was you—with very poor skills.”

“I do hope you didn’t give yourself away.”

“Torturers assume every sound is pain.”

He smiled. “Quite. Let’s get you out of these manacles.”

“No.”

Mycroft paused.

“It’s been months since I’ve seen you,” Sherlock said. “It’d be a shame to waste the ambiance.” The chains clanked as he shifted his position—they still held his arms away from his body, but now his feet were firmly beneath him and his height was restored. He looked Mycroft directly in the eye from behind his filthy curls and smiled.

Mycroft kissed him, hungrily this time. “Say it, then.”

“Hurt me.”

Mycroft gave him a wicked grin, pulled off one of his soft leather gloves, and ran his fingernails roughly down Sherlock’s abused back.

Sherlock threw his head back and moaned.

The terrorists could wait a few more hours.


End file.
